


Three Conversations That Once Happened to Doctor Impossible (and One That Never Did)

by misura



Category: Soon I Will Be Invincible - Austin Grossman
Genre: Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[what it says on the tin]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Conversations That Once Happened to Doctor Impossible (and One That Never Did)

.01

There are few more disturbing sights in the world than seeing Bloodstryke feeding his armor.

It's animal blood, of course. It's one thing to slaughter hundreds of civilians in your bid for world domination, or to threaten to blow up a small city unless the government forks over some serious cash; it's another thing to commit cold-blooded murder.

"Sorry. Lunch time." He used to be an accountant at Smith, Jones and King. I'm not supposed to know this, even if I'm not sure how, exactly, this knowledge is of use to me.

"No problem." When you become a supervillain, you learn how to deal with other people's small quirks and eccentricities - and how to hide your own as best as you can.

Heroes need to be subtle about stabbing each other in the back. Villains don't need to be. It comes with the job, so to speak. It doesn't stop us from forming alliances, but it means most of us don't have a lot of friends.

If I put my mind to it, I could probably create an artificial kind of blood that would keep Bloodstryke's armor happy and powered up without the need for any discrete visits to the local abattoir.

We're not friends, though. Right now, we're not even allies - although I hope that is soon to change.

"So you were saying about the Bloodstone?"

 

.02

It takes me ten days to develop a perfect replica of the beer they drank in Egypt around 1800 BC.

Unlike some people, I can't claim any close acquaintance with alcoholic beverages, but it tastes sort of okay to me. A bit bland, and there's not a lot of foam. Maybe they liked it that way, though.

When you need to get up at dawn the next day to drag around massive blocks of stone to build someone an enormous I Was Here, you probably don't want to cope with a massive hang-over.

Besides, given that the person I plan on serving this brew to owns a mysterious, powerful artifact that could presumably blow up my lab, it might be just as well this stuff isn't likely to turn him into a drunken, raging idiot. The goal is to impress, not incapacitate. (I have plenty of other drugs for that.)

"Ugh. This stuff tastes like dishwater."

The goal might require some adjusting. "It's Egyptian. Authentic recipe."

"By Isis!" Well, at least he looks impressed. It's not the good kind of impressed, though. Not the kind of impressed people get when you have just outlined your diabolically clever masterplan to gain world domination. This is more like the kind of impressed people get when you have just outlined your astonishingly idiotic masterplan to gain world domination that can easily be foiled by the very person you have just shared it with. (Trust me, I've learned the difference the hard way.)

"I thought you might like it." I thought he might let me take a closer look at the Hammer.

The Pharaoh takes another sip. "Nope. Still tastes like dishwater. Sorry."

Oh well. Time for plan B.

 

.03

Lily doesn't talk much about her past. Our future. Or rather: what used to be our (not particularly bright) future, before a bunch of scientists created Lily and sent her back in time to fix things.

She did a good job. Too good, one might say, given that when she completed the mission they'd given her and came back, nobody knew who she was anymore. The world she had known was gone.

There are times when I wonder if she is the way she is because she wants it back.

Now, don't get me wrong: when I tell the governments of the world I want them to pay me two billion dollars (or the local equivalent thereof; I'm not too picky about currencies) in exchange for which I will refrain from blowing up the moon, I mean it. I'm not joking, I'm not bluffing, and I'm not putting on an act. I'm a supervillain, and I'm dead serious.

The thing is: if Lily ever got her hands on a doomsday device, I feel she might use it. No demands, no warnings, no international broadcasts. Just one press of the button and boom.

"This button?"

It's big and red and truthfully marked 'Self Destruct Button (Do Not Touch)', because anyone touching it is, indeed, very likely to blow themselves up - along with a considerable number of other people.

In the unlikely case any hero makes it far enough to press it, they will of course be told they have a whole two minutes to find a way to stop this from happening. (This will even be true. It's one thing if I blow up the world for refusing to meet my demands; it's another thing entirely if some hero uses my device to do so by accident.)

"Yes." Lily always seems to know when I am being untruthful. It's a pity, because although I can, on occasion, see right through her, it's always literally, not metaphorically.

"Well, they still have three hours." She sounds wistful.

"They'll probably ask for extra time." They always do. It's a stalling technique, while the heroes get suited up and figure out where I've set up my secret base this time around.

"And you'll give it to them."

"Yes." Not as much as they'll want, but that's how the game is played.

Lily sighs.

 

.01

"I know it's you," she says, Erica says. "Jonathan."

And there are no rules for this situation, no handy How-To guide to cope with this. The hostage who knows your past identity, who's sat down for lunch with your past identity, who's laughed at the jokes of your past identity even though they really weren't terribly funny. (Smart, yes, but not really laugh-out-loud funny. Humor is tricky, when you're a genius.)

For a hero, this would be a happy moment. The love interest they've been pining after for many years finally discovers that the person who keeps saving their life is the same person who shyly flirts with them at work, or on the train, or when they meet you in the hall because they're living next door.

I'm not a hero. This isn't going to end well.

On the other hand, even if I'm a villain now, it still doesn't feel quite right to keep her manacled to the wall of my secret lair when she's just called me by my real name. (They're very comfortable manacles. I've spent a lot of time designing them, making sure they fit exactly right. It's a matter of pride.)

"Don't think this changes anything," I say, even though we both know I'm lying.

I've just changed her status from helpless captive to - well, she's still my captive. And she's still helpless, even if she can walk around now. But she's got a name now. She's _Erica_.

Have you ever noticed how rarely villains use the names of people they kidnap? That's because names aren't important. It's not important that you've kidnapped Bob, or Timmy, or Jenny. What's important is what they are to the hero: their girlfriend, their brother, their pet dog.

(Yes, Feral once had a girlfriend named Bob. I don't want to talk about it.)

"I suppose it doesn't." Being Erica, it takes her less than five seconds to take a full inventory of the room.

"Are you hungry? There's a few take-out places that deliver all the way out here." I tip them heavily for the privilege, needless to say.

She shrugs. "Why not? It's probably going to be a while before ... well."

Before Jason gets here. Before CoreFire arrives to save his girlfriend from the evil clutches of Doctor Impossible. I wonder if she's going to tell him. In bed, perhaps, after the happy reunion.

Sometimes, I wish I could actually kill him.

"Yeah," I say, and then, because I can't help myself: "Would you like to take a tour? I've got some pretty cool stuff around here." And nobody to show it to who is able to actually appreciate it.

"Can I write about it later?" She is grinning, but I know that if I say 'yes', that article's going to get written all the same. It might even win her another award.

"Probably better if you didn't," I say. There's a few tricks up my sleeve I'm still working on, stuff I don't want anyone to know about just yet. "People might wonder."

She doesn't point out they already do.


End file.
